


In pulve rem mortis

by fistbunp



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Blood, Psychopomps, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6834955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fistbunp/pseuds/fistbunp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The angel of the Lord tarrieth round about them that fear him: and delivereth them.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: two girls drag their twins through death's loophole and are conscripted for their trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sicut erat in principio

**Author's Note:**

> The title translates to “in the dust of death” from psalm 22; the chapter title to “as it was in the beginning” from the gloria of the magnificat; and the summary is taken from psalm 34. Can you tell I’m a choral scholar, yes you can.

  
WEIRD PSYCHOPOMP STORY!!!                                                                              | Posted by msilna310

 

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**msilna310**

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GUYS something really strange happened tonight

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**Assbutt McGee**

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What happened msilna310? 

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ok well i work in a lab with lots of human blood samples and we are running this huge study about bacteria in the blood 

i wont go into detail but basically we have this huge incubator with loads of samples in it running at body temp 

and i was working late and we had a powercut for hours and the machine stopped working ! all the blood cooled down and we have to redo the expt :(

but the point is after about an hour after the powercut started these psychopomps turned up !! it was so strange, there were two of them instead of just one and i have no idea why they were there. they seemed really interested in the incubator though. anyone have any ideas ? 

==========================================================================================

**princess tsubaki**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

that's weird....what did the pps do?

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

they just stood around for a bit looking at the incubator, i think they were confused. they might have been talking to each other i dont know

==========================================================================================

**HarmlessToaster**

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Sorry to hear about your experiment msilna310. That's interesting though. Never heard of pps turning up for no reason before. 

==========================================================================================

**Kiba-Akimichi**

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yeah theres no way theyd turn up without a death. my first thought was that it might have something to do with the blood not being incubated any more

==========================================================================================

**princess tsubasa**

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what so like.......lots of blood cooling down can trick pps into thinking someone died???

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**HarmlessToaster**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have no idea. Seems that way though.

==========================================================================================

**HarmlessToaster**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What makes it really weird is that two turned up at once. I've never heard of that happening ever.

==========================================================================================

**Assbutt McGee**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How much blood were you using?

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

err it added up to a volume of around 17ish pints (its a HUGE study)

==========================================================================================

**Assbutt McGee**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's a seriously massive amount of blood. Shouldn't that be used for transfusions?

==========================================================================================

**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

assbutt dont be a dick

==========================================================================================

**Assbutt McGee**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What? It's a reasonable question?

==========================================================================================

**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

not relevant to the thread

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

lab blood is not transfusion grade, dummy. most of it is from HIV positive donors

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To steer us back, however fleetingly, towards relevance: 17 pints happens to be almost exactly twice the amount of blood in the body of an average person. Do we think it's possible that this might correspond to the otherwise unprecedented phenomena of two psychopomps manifesting at once?

==========================================================================================

**Assbutt McGee**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Creepy name, but you've got a good point.

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's cute that you feel you're in a position to give name advice, Assbutt McGee.

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**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

owned

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**HarmlessToaster**

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That makes sense. Just curious: msilna310, how many different donors were the samples from?

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

OH... all the samples go back to 2 post mortem donations

==========================================================================================

**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

wait im confused. so if we're assuming that when human blood cools down a pp turns up for whatever bizarre reason... two pps might have turned up either because of it being 17 pints OR because it was from two different people? 

==========================================================================================

**GardenGnostic**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

sorry im late to the thread i was asleep! i think given the evidence theres a couple of different hypotheses

a- only volume is relevant and ONE "person's worth" of blood from ANY number of donors cooling from 37C to 20C will summon ONE pp

b- only donor number is relevant and ANY amount of blood from ONE donor cooling from 37C to 20C will summon ONE pp

c- both volume and donor number are relevant and ONE person's worth of blood from ONE donor cooling from 37C to 20C will summon a pp

d- neither are relevant and this was a random event

those are the ones i can think of, im still a bit sleepy. feel free to add more :)

==========================================================================================

**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

makes sense GardenGnostic. cant think of any others

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**HarmlessToaster**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok so if it’s narrowed down to those options how do we tell which one is it?

==========================================================================================

**princess tsubaki**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this is fun lol, feels like we're solving a mystery

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

msilna310, have you previously cooled smaller quantities of blood from one donor? Or the same quantity of blood from more donors?

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

YES both of those !! we've run the experiment twice before, the first time we didn't have permission for the post-mortem donations (which are better, theyre from the same person so more consistent) so we used smaller samples 

we had more than 5L of blood in total from the multiple-donor samples and then the second time we used 3-4L from the same person

and when we cooled the samples at the end no pps turned up either time !!

==========================================================================================

**GardenGnostic**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

:o

**princess tsubaki**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

woah 

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you, msilna310. That information has narrowed our options down nicely, and we can extrapolate with reasonable confidence that one person's worth of blood from a single donor cooling from 37C to 20C will cause one psychopomp to be erroneously summoned. It must be an oddity of their system for detecting deaths.

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

yeah wow !

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**HarmlessToaster**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's really fascinating. Thanks for posting about this msilna310. It's a nice insight into how they hone in on people dying. I wonder if there's any more evidence like this floating around.

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

no problem !

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I concur. It’d be interesting to test directly whether one person’s worth of blood from a single donor does indeed summon one psychopomp. 

==========================================================================================

**GardenGnostic**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i was thinking the same thing, i dont think its a very good idea though hehe. dont want to start a trend of trying to summon pps!

==========================================================================================

**Kiba_Akimichi**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

oh uhh. i was about to add this to the list of tenets but maybe i shouldnt do that if its going to give people ideas. i already hear enough about lunatics trying to summon them as it is

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just between us, then. 

==========================================================================================

**TentacleTherapist**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

msilna310: Would you mind deleting the thread?

==========================================================================================

**msilna310**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

yeah ok. bye everyone, nice talking to you !

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**princess tsubaki**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

byeee

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**GardenGnostic**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

:)

==========================================================================================

 

This thread was deleted.

 

==========================================================================================

  
  


Thousands of miles apart, two girls stare at their computer screens with the same triumphant excitement, hearts pounding in parallel, and reach for their phones.

ROSE: Dave,  
ROSE: I need a favour.  
DAVE: if i say yes will you let me go back to sleep  


JADE: john!!!!!!!!! john john john john  
JADE: please can you help me out with this really important project thing? :D  
JOHN: does this mean i won't owe you for the movie tickets any more?  


Thousands of miles apart, two boys wake up to questions of an ilk far beyond their comprehension, and agree to sacrifice themselves to its cause. 

This is their story.

 


	2. Effuderunt sanguinem eorum tamquam aquam...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Their blood have they shed like water...”

The clock is ticking down. In thirty minutes, you’re going to make the biggest breakthrough of your life. You’re also quite possibly going to die. 

Your target is, after all, death himself, and you’re knocking at his gates as you speak. This is your purpose, you feel it with every fibre of your being - to pose the questions nobody else can, to pierce the veil and confront what dwells in its shadows. Your name is Rose fucking Lalonde and you’re about to rip death’s stitches and pry answers from the seams.

Dave is looking at you, you discern from the angle of his head. You’ve had to refamiliarise yourself with the nuance of his body language now that he’s stopped taking his shades off. You never see his eyes any more; haven’t seen them, in point of fact, for approaching five months. Whenever you see your own identical pair in the mirror - gray-blue irises and long blonde eyelashes set into sunken, gaunt hollows - you’re guiltily grateful for the gesture. 

Above his shades  his short blonde hair clings to his forehead, straggly and unkempt from lack of energy to wash it. Harsh stubble lines his jaw; shadows congregate in its contours, partly due to the dim lighting of your living room and partly not. Even by such wan candlelight, the exhausted pallor of his skin is striking. The toll of these past months has never been more sharply in evidence, and for his sake you are fervently glad it’s almost over. 

You know you look exactly the same, if not worse, but excitement is keeping you buoyed far above the reach of fatique. At this point you could be at death’s door and it wouldn’t even make a dent in your mood. ( _At death’s door _ is pleasingly accurate turn of phrase for the very situation you're in. You might remember that one for later.) You’re suppressing your pent-up energy as best you can for Dave’s sake, though;  you are in rude spirits compared to him. Not that you’d be able to tell from his demeanor, of course, since he’s as deliberately nonchalant as ever, expertly maintaining the poker face he’s perfected over a lifetime.

“I’m calling this as an official goth phase relapse,” he drawls with faint amusement, head turning minutely as he surveys the living room. He’s got a point. Nothing says  _ ill-advised gothic renaissance _ better than a room full of candles and black-cloth-swathed furniture, and you are a woman of precision. This morning you’d tidied up the various knitting supplies and trashy gaming magazines habitually strewn around by you and Dave respectively, then decided to push the sofa against the wall just under the TV - a not inconsiderable feat, in your weakened state. You’d gone on to cover it with black velvet acquired from a local fabric shop, along with the kitchen counters on the opposite wall and the desk, turntables and mixing board along the other two. In essence, you’d started out with the vague notion that a meeting with a psychopomp should proceed in suitably serious surroundings, before being swept up in a combination of your own slightly grandiose sensibilities and a permanent fondness for going ironically overboard. Dave had approvingly described the setup as “a very very poor man’s funeral parlour crossed with a very very poor man’s seance room”, and you’d high-fived.

The finishing touches are the now pitch-black skies framed by the windows of your apartment, and the multitude of candles you’ve scattered around the place, which bathe the room in a diffuse, jaundiced light and give it an air of real eeriness. Distinctive among these is a scented candle, a necessity for the occasion in ways you don’t want to think about. Specifically, it's a “Black Magic” Yankee Candle, in the name of ticking every ironic box possible, which smells just enough like incense to contribute something genuinely atmospheric to the room. In the midst of all this, you and Dave sit opposite each other, cross-legged on the floor. You’re both appropriately attired for the occasion, you in a black cowl hoodie and skirt and he in a black shirt and matching jeans. It’s sweet of him - you know he'd love nothing more than to appear to the dark gods of the presumable afterlife in a My Little Pony onesie, especially in the midst of such solemnity, but he’s resisted the urge for your sake.

“I’m afraid it’s true. I’ve gone... Grimdark,” you confess theatrically. The half-light lends your voice a climactic quality which you intend to make full use of. “I have slipped, once more, under the fabled blackdeath trance of the woegothics, quaking all the while in the bloodeldritch throes of the broodfester tongues.” You soften your tone. “There’s nothing you could possibly do to save me, except to pray for the eldritch gods to have mercy, and perhaps to play some especially perky J-pop.”

“Sis, I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to but allow me to gleefully  _ school  _ you in the knowledge that for the purposes of this conversation I am your own personal joymaestro. I’m mix you a playlist so aggressively chirpy it’s about to be cast as the love interest in a Ben Stiller movie, guaranteed to snap you out of the most stubborn of broodnasty throes or your money goddamn back.” He pauses to take breath, having spoken in one long phrase. “I’m talking ninety plus minutes of feverish ukulele feat. a relentlessly jaunty flute refrain, played by two beaming douchebags in matching floral shirts and trilbies.”

“One of them is smiling  _ and  _ playing the flute?” You say, a smile playing around your own lips. “That’s quite a talent.” 

“That’s what I’m paying him for. Luckily for us what this guy lacks in awareness of the concept of taste, he more than makes up for in sheer delirious pants-shitting enthusiasm.”

“Consider my fears definitively put to rest. Pray tell, how do you plan to locate such gifted individuals?”

“We go to the music bar on folk night. With a net. Problem fucking solved.”

“It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“Damn straight. Your chakras will be blitzed out the yin yang by the time I’m done.”

You rock back, smiling gently. “I can see the fate of my soul is in good hands.”

His mouth quirks up on one side at your wording. “Why are we so anime, what the fuck.”

“Baka ne, desu ka?”

“Wow, stop.” Your laughter resonates strangely in the dark space of the room. “You’re lowering the tone for your deathguests. One psychowhiff of this weeaboo bullshit and they’ll step right the hell off.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want that,” you say sombrely. “Perhaps I should add more candles to darken the mood further.”

“Oh shit you’re right, if there’s anything this place direly needs it’s more fucking candles. Add some velvet while you’re at it.”

“I really wish we were allowed to keep pets. A black cat familiar would not have gone amiss here.” Your tone is genuinely wistful - you’d love a cat.

“Let’s get some crows in, if we’re talking being as generically morbid as possible. I’m joking of course, crows are rambunctious feathery assholes.”

“Yes, and it’s possibly not the best idea to have animals around.” You keep your tone perfectly measured. “In case things go badly.”

He rolls with it, because it’s Dave, of course he does. “Speaking of which, I got my will notarised. My body goes to comedy and if it isn’t used in some wacky Weekend At Bernies type farce involving at least three of the douchebags from the frat pack I’m pulling a Bruce Willis.”

“Shouting yippee kiy yay and pushing Alan Rickman out of a window?”

“Jesus, sis. Sometimes it’s like we’re not even related.” 

“Well, regardless of your plans to become a ghostly John McClane, I’m glad you’ve sorted that out. I’m leaving everything to Mom and Bro.”

“Me too,” he says evenly.

You sigh. “Dave, are you sure you’re ok with this?”

“I guess,” he says flatly. “If I hadn’t you would have just carried out your elaborate suicide mission by yourself anyway. And I’m sure it’ll all be worth it in the end, when you’re finally gazing upon the grim reaper’s puckered asshole of a face and solving his coy deathriddles or whatever the fuck.” He sounds somewhat sarcastic, which is unusual for him.

“Well, you have about fifteen minutes left to back out. If you want to.” You look at him earnestly. “It doesn’t have to be both of us, you know. I’m quite happy to greet whoever arrives by myself.”

“Yeah I’m fully aware that your ambition in life is to become ambassador to the goddamn deathangels of the apocalypse, Rose. Can you just rein in your titanic Lovecraftian girlboner for a half sec.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you referring to my behemothic horrormember?”

“Your - ok this is stupid let’s stop talking about dicks. What I was going to say was that, you know, I’ve already paid for oblivion. Might as well see it through.” He nods towards the tankard sitting heavily on the ground between you.

You check the thermometer protruding from the top. Only 2C above room temperature - you’ve got a few minutes left. Anticipation flares up in your chest, taking your breath away. You avoid looking at what’s inside the tankard directly; your stomach drops nauseatingly every time you do. It’s blood, of course. Over five litres of it, maintained continuously at body temperature for six months, until about an hour ago when you’d finally taken it out of the incubator. $500, that incubator had been, plus more in electrical bills, and all worth it for this moment.

The thing was that it was impossible to take that much blood from a single person in six months. But you’d wanted to be the first, you’d wanted to make the breakthrough, and so you’d enlisted your closest friend. Who, conveniently, happens to be your identical twin, right down to the blood you’d shared for nine months in the womb. With his help, you’d gradually, arduously collected the blood you needed. You’d skirted real danger on certain occasions, but here you were, both alive, if unmistakably anemic, and about to take the first step over the ultimate threshold. You and Dave are going to make history.

You lock eyes with him, knowing he’s looking back at you, and together you wait for death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: Spot All The Canon References, Oh My God There Are So Fucking Many, I Like My Canon References To Be As Abundant As They Are Obnoxiously Unsubtle
> 
> There’s also one to Dave’s blog in case anyone apart from me has read that WONK 
> 
> For reference, rose and dave’s living room is basically dave and bro’s for reasons that will become clear later http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/mspaintadventures/images/b/be/DaveRoom.png/revision/latest?cb=20111219131900 
> 
> PS identical twins of different genders are rare but do happen if the fertilised egg is XXY by some genetic anomaly, in case anyone was confused. also temperatures are in celsius because im lazy and british, might change them later if i can be arsed


	3. ...et non erat qui sepeliret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...and there was no man to bury them.” - Psalm 79

You are very, very excited! You're about to apply the scientific method to a totally new and fascinating field, and time is ticking down to the moment when you find out whether your efforts so far are enough to yield results. You're _so_ looking forward to it. Your name is Jade Egbert and you're about to make some serious experimental progress!!!

“I’m back!” you call loudly, closing the front door behind you, and set down the heavy 5L container on the wooden floor with your other hand. A different sort of weight lifts off you, at the same time - you’d felt really guilty using lab resources for your own personal project, not to mention worried that someone would catch you putting things in the 37 C room. Now the experimental material is in your hands, and the project almost over, you can relax a bit.

John rushes down from upstairs, where he’d presumably been sticking fake arms onto cakes or whatever it is comedians do in their off time. He looks just like you - thick messy dark hair, buckteeth and glasses with the exact same prescription as yours, though his are square not round. He’s taller than you, which you personally think is bullshit considering you’re supposed to be identical twins, and more muscular, even though you’re about as strong as him. You guess it’s just a result of sex-chromosome-mediated differential expression of testosterone.

You'd warned him that time was of the essence, hence his haste - the container has been cooling down rapidly on your journey home, not giving you much time to prepare once you arrived. That, and he doesn't want to miss seeing the result of your experiment. Not that he cares either way, but he's got something of a personal stake in the experimental method.

You hoist the container onto the coffee table in the middle of the room, semi-accidentally dislodging one of dad’s stupid harlequin dolls in the process, and sit on the sofa, narrowly missing a bunch of other plushes. John sits beside you, staring at the container with wide eyes.

“That's it?” he asks, his tone mixing anticipation with apprehension.

“Yep!” you say, a little unnecessarily.

“ _Cool._ ” He grabs it, unscrews the lid and peers in at the five litres of liquid inside. That is to say, five litres of synthetic blood, which you’ve cloned over a period of six months from a mixture of yours and John’s blood stem cells. Working in a leukaemia lab is super fucking cool sometimes.  

He recoils suddenly, wrinkling his nose so his glasses lift up. “Eww, it smells.”

“Don’t open it then, idiot!” you retort.

He hastily screws the lid back on, keeping the container at arm’s length, and vaguely flaps his hand as if trying to disperse the odour. “Got any deodorant?”

“Don’t be a baby, it’ll go away in a second.”

“Man, imagine if you didn’t work in a lab.” His brows are raised in consternation. “Imagine if _all_ of that was our blood. Can you imagine?”

“Ew John! Don’t be silly.” You consider it for a moment anyway, scientific mind kicking in regardless. “I guess since there’s two of us it would have been a lot easier for us than most people, though!”

He shivers at that. “Thank God we only had to do one initial transfusion."

“ _Oh_ yeah.”

“How long do we have left?”

You check your stopwatch. “Fifteen minutes.” You’d done your homework - simulated the cooling-down process with a graphing program your lab uses, based on the outside temperature forecast and what you’d set the house thermostat to this morning. You’d then set your stopwatch to that time and triggered it to start when you took the blood out of the incubation room. Usually when it came to science you were slightly more of a wing-it-and-hope type, but this time you wanted to know exactly when to expect results.

You wriggle yourself into a slightly more comfortable position on the sofa, preparing to wait. You’re in your living room, which is to say your dad’s living room. He’s out, of course, since it’s the middle of the day and he has a respectable office job to go to, but his parental touch is evident all around you. Which is to say that you are surrounded by a mixture of cakes, plushes, pictures of random stuff and proud fatherly notes. You spot one peeking out from underneath the sofa and pick it up. SON AND/OR DAUGHTER, it reads. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, IT MEANS YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO LIFT THIS HEAVY SOFA ABOVE YOUR HEAD.YOU HAVE TRULY BECOME A MATURE, STRONG MAN AND/OR WOMAN. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU. You roll your eyes. You love your dad, but he is so silly sometimes!

And that’s not even the worst thing he does. Despite your continual protests, he insists on showing his support for your hobbies by decorating the entire house accordingly. Even hobbies you haven’t had for years!! It’s like he latches onto every slight bit of interest you’ve ever shown in anything and blows it way out of proportion, so that all your stupid childhood obsessions are splayed over the house for everyone to see. The clowns John was obsessed with when he was 5, the pumpkins you liked when you were 8, the dog you wanted when you were 12. He’s even extended the habit to your careers - the walls are covered with pictures of either corny mustachioed comedians or generic science stuff. Electron microscope pictures of cells, periodic tables, diagrams of atoms, that kind of thing. You know it’s just because he loves you, but does he have to show it in such a ridiculous cloying way???

You think John’s thoughts are probably in a similar vein, judging from the pronounced look of distaste on his face as he surveys the room. Things are worse for him, on the whole - you still quite like pumpkins and dogs, but John absolutely hates clowns now, partly as a result of your dad’s obsession with putting them everywhere and partly because he grew up and realised those weird harlequin dolls are creepy as fuck! He’s mentioned them in every single routine you’ve ever watched, mainly because his rants about them are hilarious and always get big laughs. In a way, it’s fortunate for John’s career that your dad has such an unusual parenting style. He wouldn’t have nearly as much material otherwise.

The bulk of his resentment toward dad stems from something way stupider though, which is typical of John. That is to say, your dad’s main passion in life, apart from copying all of your ones and his fatherly penchant for pipes: baking. It is a field in which his enthusiasm is unbounded by mortal limits, and in which he is as prolific as it is possible to be while still taking breaks for eating, sleeping and going to work. The man is a nigh-unstoppable cake machine. Your house is habitually redolent with the sweet, warm odours of Betty Crocker, which for closely related reasons your brother also hates, and every surface which might potentially support a cake almost certainly does so at any given moment. The words of John’s skit rise unbidden to the forefront of your mind: “the smell of baking in my house,” he spits, “could lift an especially portly hobo _off his feet_.” That’s your favourite bit from that part of his routine. And true, to boot.

You interrupt his baleful staring contest with the cake on the table next to you to make an enquiry. “What do you think is going to happen?” You’re genuinely curious. You’ve already notated each of your own hypotheses on the whiteboard against one wall, which you use to jot down any ideas you have while you’re at home. John calls it your Sheldon Board after Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory because he is chronically lame, following which your usual response is “Don’t give up the day job!” Get it, because his day job is stand-up. Comedy gold.

The board reads:

“I dunno,” he says dismissively, shrugging. “Haven’t thought about it.”

You can’t say you’re surprised. John only agreed to do this in the first place in exchange for being allowed to write about it, since a _my family is strange_ routine is a comedian’s bread and butter and he’s always looking for more material. You also think he probably couldn’t bear the thought of missing an opportunity to make a ghostbusters joke. “Do you believe they exist?” you enquire.

“What, psychopomps?” He looks blankly at you before turning back to the container. “I’ve never seen one, so...” He trails off.

“Have you never been to hospital?”

“No. I mean, I’ve heard hospitals are overrun with them, but.” He shrugs again. “I’ve never been that bothered, you know. If I do meet one it’ll happen when it happens.”

“Yep,” you agree. “I estimate it’ll happen sixty seconds from now. Fifty eight.”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “We’ll see.”

Side by side, surrounded by plushes and confectionery, you sit and wait for the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate fic title: What Do You Mean Its Unlikely That Two Sets Of Twins Resulting From The Very Rare Event Of Sex Chromosome Meiotic Nondisjunction Would End Up Interested In The Same Very Obscure Field That Sounds Pretty Likely To Me. 
> 
> Tbh this fic is exactly what you'd expect from a molecular biology student who's also a choral scholar I am very predictable.
> 
> Jade font may be downloaded here http://ladywaflles.deviantart.com/journal/I-made-a-Jade-Harley-Font-320475232, thanks to LadyWaflles on deviantart


	4. Etsi ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

So you guess you're about to meet your maker. That's cool. Sounds like a good time. You'd give that concept a solid 2.5 out of 5 hats for metaphysical biznasty. Not that you gave a shit about the concept of death gods before you were asked to donate 50% of your blood over six months to the cause of summoning one, but hey. Your name is Dave Lalonde and you’re rolling with your sister’s weird hobbies like a champ.

Speaking of which. "37 degrees," announces Rose, and stands to greet your presumably imminent guests. You follow suit, going slowly to avoid blacking out. 

A huge patch of air on the right of the tankard, Rose's left, suddenly starts to look a bit wavier than the rest of the room, quivering and rippling as though the space itself is vibrating. It’s strange to look at; you have the disconcerting feeling of being underwater. Neither you nor Rose utters a single word as something solidifies within it. Two somethings, to be precise. You glance at Rose in confusion, but she remains transfixed. 

The two figures look roughly humanoid, like two humans standing next to each other, one taller than the other. They're taking on substance with every passing moment, as if they're swimming into focus, and are starting to look really fucking intimidating - they're painted in swathes of dark greyish-black, and their inchoate form gives them the look of two silhouettes shrouded in miasma. Involuntary shivers run down your spine.

You're starting to pick out details as they become more distinct. The pool of colour is more clearly localised - mid-hue grey where their faces would be and pitch black everywhere else, except for two pinpricks of orange towards the top of their heads. No - one of them has four pinpricks. Everything is starting to taking shape more rapidly, now, the creatures beginning to shake off their obscurity. You pick out eyes, or at least shapes where the eyes should be - one set traffic light red, the other alternately red and blue - on grey faces, and sharp devil-horns, one pair on one and two on the other, and then they're entirely corporeal and standing two feet away from you in your shitty fake seance living room.

One's a girl, you think. The one with red eyes, which you now recognise are glasses with pointed lenses. She's got shoulder-length black hair and short spiky horns which graduate in colour, from red at the bases to yellow at the tips. It's a pretty sunny colour scheme for some supposed death guides, you gotta say. The other one is a guy, you're pretty sure, and he's also wearing glasses, one blue lens and one red like old fashioned 3D glasses. Two of his horns are smaller and set further down than the other ones but they look the same as the girl's, except maybe a bit more curved. They're a fairly intimidating couple overall, horned and unsmiling and with their eyes hidden from view.

They're both wearing plain black: long-sleeved shirts and smart trousers, the former embroidered with a crest on one side. A different crest for each, in different colours. The girl's is sort of turquoise and looks like omega with a horizontal line underneath, and the guy's is gold and a 2 in roman numerals. You flick back up to his face. His mouth is pulled up at one side as if in intense confusion, and you can see a bunch of sharp teeth. His incisors are particularly prominent, and you immediately think of vampires. 

"What the fuck," he says emphatically in a nasal voice, breaking the few seconds of silence since they materialised. You relate. Turns out Rose was dead on the money, except for there being two of them.

"I concur," says the girl. Her voice is a marriage between sharp, precise diction and a brightly energetic tone. You think of ice cubes in a glass of AJ, then immediately wish you had one of those.

"Perhaps we can help," suggests Rose. Her voice, now that you're thinking about it, is an interesting counterpoint to the psychopomp girl's - low and smooth and confident.

"Perhaps you can!" replies the girl. "What exactly is going on here? Where are the two deceased?"

You and Rose raise your hands in unison, having simultaneously come to the conclusion that it's the most infuriating answer you can give. Sometimes you love your sister. You think you get it now, too, why there are two of them - your blood is so similar it counted as one person’s, but since it was contributed to by two different “souls”, or chakras or whatever the fuck anime thing is happening here, you got two death guides for the price of one.

Your answer had the intended effect, anyway. The guy's face is practically contorted in incredulity; the girl's lips are pressed together and her brow is furrowed as if she's thinking hard.

"Nope!" she says after a few seconds. "I don't get it. Please explain."

"Certainly!" says Rose agreeably. "That is, if you'll tell us a few things in return." This has fallen right into her hands, and she's feeling pretty smug about it, you can tell.

"Are you seriously..." The guy trails off. He's got a lisp you hadn't noticed before. "Trying to barter with us for information?"

"It would certainly appear so," says Rose rather flamboyantly, the muscles at the corners of her mouth twitching. This is definitely going to her head.

"That seems fair," says the girl, somewhat to your surprise.

"Terezi," hisses the guy. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets in discomfort. "What are you doing."

"Shh, Sollux," says Terezi. "This is unprecedented, and as such warrants investigation." Sollux rolls his eyes at that, you can tell by the way he moves his head. "Of course, you will not be permitted to divulge this information to anybody else." She smiles widely, revealing even, sharp-looking teeth. It’s a pretty badass look, that, red shiny specs and a rictus grin. "On pain of death."

"Sounds reasonable," says Rose calmly. You know she'd only wanted the information for herself, anyway, screw all that stuff about advancing human knowledge. Plunging alone into dark, untested waters is exactly Rose's cup of tea.

"Excellent! Mr Candy Apple and I will confer for a few moments." She turns away and launches into animated conversation with Sollux in a quite unpleasant-sounding, guttural language. You and Rose turn away to be polite, though obviously you don't have a hope of understanding them anyway, and engage in a sophisticated exchange of your own.

"Isn't Candy Apple a Faygo flavour?" you mutter. "Do they have  _ Faygo  _ in the afterlife?" 

"We've learnt so much already," says Rose. The sarcasm, as usual, is implied, but from the fact that she's having trouble controlling her smile you wonder whether she's being genuine for once. Figures that it would take a meeting with some death gods to finally crack Rose's veneer of disaffected control.

She looks back over at Sollux and Terezi, watching them gesticulate. "Is that the broodfester tongue you've been going on about?" you ask, and try not to follow suit. Someone here has to be professional.

"Exactly. It sounds fascinating, doesn't it? Like no other language I've ever heard."

You regard her expression of rapt attention with considerable skepticism. Is she hearing the same glut of consonants and glottal stops as you? It sounds so inherently  _ violent  _ that you can’t even tell what kind of discussion they’re having. It’s practically hurting your ears. "Try to clear some really persistent mucus,” you advise, “and you'll be like 80% there.”

She shushes you, nodding towards them, and you discern that their discussion seems to be winding down. She was evidently keeping much better track of the cadence of their speech than you. 

“We have agreed,” announces Terezi brightly, “on the deal we are about to offer you.”

“You have two options,” says Sollux. Terezi grins sort of knowingly at him, like they’re sharing an in-joke. He scowls back, which in no way abates her glee. “Option one,” he says. “We wipe your memories and you go on with your dull human lives like this never happened.”

“Option number two!” continues Terezi. She lifts her sharp chin as if in challenge, light glinting off her glasses. “You help us. Our business in the human world would be much expedited by having a human contact. An impartial third party to help us make decisions. You would serve as that consulting party. You will learn much of the realm beyond the living, and you may decide to terminate this arrangement at any point, in which case those memories will be lost.”

“And if you tell anyone about this,” says Sollux darkly, “we’ll be back. And it won’t be for a friendly chat. It’ll be in our full capacity as psychopomps. So if you tell somebody, tell them goodbye as well.” You actually have to bite your lip to stop yourself from gasping dramatically. You don’t want to piss him off right now but it’s incredibly tempting.

“Got it,” says Rose icily, reasserting her control over the conversation. Girl wouldn’t know how to de-escalate a situation if her life depended on it, which is actually the case. Sollux’s scowl deepens, making him look a bit like a sulky toddler. 

She turns to you, short white-blonde hair whipping around. “What do you think?”

You’re resigned. “Obviously you’re going to go through with it. And it’d be way too hard to live with someone who’s a death ambassador but isn’t allowed to tell me.” You shrug. “Whatever, I’ll do it.”

Both the guides prickle at that. You hadn’t thought Sollux could prickle more than he already was doing, but there you go. Guy is full of hidden depths.

“This is not an agreement to be entered into lightly,” the girl warns. Her grin has slipped into something of a grimace. “Would you sell your soul on a whim?”

“I’ll be the Nicolas Cage to your Peter Fonda any day, babe,” you drawl, because there’s nothing you do that’s not making dumb Ghost Rider jokes while sounding unintentionally flirty. A brief pause ensues, during which Rose drags her gaze back to you to deliver a flat, slightly alarmed  _ what are you doing _ sort of look. You don't know either. You’re starting to wonder whether you’ve crossed a line when Terezi answers that thought with a delighted, melodic laugh. You’re surprised by this just as much as everything else she’s done, but your pokerface holds.

“I can’t argue with that,” she says, grin wider than ever. Is she… Flirting back?

“How do we fulfil the contract?” Rose asks pointedly. Probably annoyed that you’re stealing the guides’ attention after she went to all the trouble of summoning them.

The guides look at each other. Sollux looks stumped, and Terezi thoughtful. 

“A good question,” says Terezi. “I’m not sure what sort of gesture would be most appropriate.”

“As long as it’s quick,” Sollux snarls, “I don’t give a fuck.”

She says something briefly in guide language. You hope it was  _ Shut up _ . Or  _ Stop being a whiny douchebag _ . Sollux cocks his head to one side though, like he’s thinking, so it was probably a suggestion. He mutters something back that’s equally impenetrable.

“Alright!” Terezi claps. “Certain texts make reference to the act of drinking blood as signifying an agreement between one of us and a human. Obscure texts, but still.” She frowns, her eyebrows disappearing beneath the rim of her glasses. “Or perhaps agreement isn’t quite the right word. Promise?”

“Covenant,” supplies Rose. You have no idea whether it’s a suggestion or a correction. 

Either way, Terezi takes it in stride. A death guide after your own heart. “Thank you! In any case, a very small amount of blood will suffice.” She takes a purposeful step forward, towards Rose; a second later, Sollux follows in a lanky sort of shuffle, advancing towards you. Oh no. You’d really rather hold on to the blood you have left, thanks.

“Can’t you take it from there?” you ask plaintively, and jab your thumb over your left shoulder towards the tankard. 

Both of them make a face like they’ve got a mouthful of lemons. “That blood is rotten,” Sollux spits. “It’s barely blood at all.”

You look at Rose, knowing she’ll pick up on your dismay without having to change your expression. 

“How much will you take?” she inquires loudly. Maybe you did broadcast some degree of your discomfort. Fuck.

“The smallest amount possible,” Terezi says, in what is possibly intended as a reassuring tone. She’s lowered her voice a little, and it has a more measured sound, but it’s difficult to pull off warmth with so sharp a timbre.

Rose raises her eyebrows at you in a sort of apologetic hopefulness. You take a brief moment to lift your eyes to the heavens, then obligingly step forward. You are very apprehensive about the prospect of presenting your bare skin to an asshole with a mouthful of very sharp teeth, and accordingly glad that you weren’t as much of a douchebag to him as you could have been. You’re not sure there’s much margin for error right now, severely anemic as you are. 

You gingerly raise a wrist; Rose does likewise, with a touch more elegance. You stand with the same stiff awkwardness, though, as both of your bony wrists get fondled by death guides.

Terezi and Sollux look at each other; she speaks to him with unusual sharpness. Anxiety bubbles up for a moment in your stomach. You don’t feel so good about this. Sollux says the same thing twice in response, and it’s a guttural, agitated sound that sets your teeth on edge. You feel like you need to know what they’re saying, like it might be crucial for your continued existence, but that you also really, really don’t want to. Your pulse jumps visibly under the white skin of your wrist.

Terezi speaks again, tersely, an order, and Sollux raises your wrist to his mouth and bites down.

The leaden shock of pain is the last thing you feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anybody is worrying I only know how to write Sollux as a complete bastard: he’s on a downswing right now. Also don’t ever store blood at body temperature or it’ll be 99% bacteria when you take it out. Safe lab practices, guys.


End file.
